Events Inevitable
by Itallia
Summary: Tom Riddle died before he could become Lord Voldemort, but history has a way of repeating itself.  Dark!Harry, dark themes.


_**Events Inevitable**_

It is said that history repeats itself, and that is the truth, even when we understand the mistakes of the past, when we can clearly see what was wrong and right. Some events recur not because of any one individual, but because their culmination is as inevitable as a storm.

Tom Riddle was killed in a raid on Diagon Alley in the early 1940s. He never had a chance to become a Dark Lord. As a result, there hadn't been one since the days of Grindelwald. Instead, life went on normally—or, at least, in as normal a fashion as it could when there was still an untapped, seething mass of hatred and uncertainty left over from Grindelwald's anti-Muggle sentiments.

The purebloods continued to whisper behind closed doors, waiting for another chance to instigate their regime. They tried, several times, to pull a revolutionary group together, but there were too many traitors among them and no single person strong enough to lead. Their groups fell apart, sold out by comrades-turned-enemies, and they destroyed themselves.

The Muggleborns continued to blunder haphazardly into the magical world, trying to adjust. They brought with them fanciful stories of giant carriages that flew through the air without winged horse or enchantment; of heat and long-distance communication and lights without a wand; of lives without magic. And the purebloods scorned them all the more for trying to bring these blasphemous things into their world, and tried again and again to rid themselves of the Mudblood rot.

And the Halfbloods—those caught in between—stood immobile and confused, wondering—which was their world? Which was their side? _Were_ there sides?

On one of the spontaneous pureblood raids, performed by a group that was doomed to fall apart, a witch and wizard were killed, and an infant was orphaned. He was sent to live with his only living relatives, his Muggle Aunt and Uncle. His life growing up was full of neglect, verbal abuse, and hatred, and he quickly learned how to return the negative sentiment.

When he turned eleven, he found out he was meant to go to a school of magic, and go he did.

He was sorted into Slytherin, and went with a heart longing for acceptance. Instead, he was scorned for his blood status. Anti-pureblood sentiment was at an all-time high. It was the Dursleys all over again. However, it was different this time, because he wasn't completely at their mercy, dependent on them or chained to them by blood. He could maneuver around them.

Slowly, achingly slowly, he began earning their respect. He was cunning; he was resourceful; and above all, he was dedicated to learning and preserving magic. He tossed away his Muggle paraphernalia with glee and donned wizarding robes and hat. He studied magic like it was the last breath of air on earth and learned how to handle a wand as well as any born-and-raised pureblood. The other Slytherins noted his talents, and when he tentatively reached out, they tilted their heads and looked down their noses at him. And then he bested one of them in a duel, and they finally allowed him into their fold.

For the rest of his years at Hogwarts, he was inundated with pureblood sentiment. It flooded his ears, and soon his mind followed, easily swayed by his own upbringing: he could see the stain of the Muggles, the catastrophic changes they were trying to make, the destruction of magic that would come. And he would do anything to prevent the taking of his magic, the only thing he had ever been able to count on.

One day in his sixth year, he mentioned the pureblood raids to the other Slytherins. The subject was met with overwhelming support. He carefully directed the conversation—it was such a shame they never succeeded. All they wanted to do was help magic proliferate. If only there was a way to unite under a single banner, to unite purebloods everywhere in the fight against the plague-like spread of the Muggle world into theirs.

Longing for such a campaign showed on every face, was evident in every voice and opinion of the students, no matter how reserved. And he gave a secret smile. He could use this. He could use this to save his magic, to protect himself and the world he held dear. But the Mudbloods didn't understand: they _liked_ the Muggles, and Muggle things, and did not care that with each new Muggle product they introduced, a magical one fell into disuse, thrown away as obsolete.

Magic should never be obsolete.

Carefully, he planted a small seed of possibility: he remarked that every generation has something that they bring into the world, every generation has its Great Cause, and perhaps theirs could be putting a halt to the spread of Muggle ideas into the magical world. Perhaps they could be the ones to put their feet down firmly and say NO to this change.

Within days, he had gathered a following not seen since Grindelwald's time. He welcomed anyone who was against Muggles and for magic, despite their blood or upbringing. Most of them were purebloods, but a few, like him, were half-bloods who were loyal to the magical world and the magical world only.

He began training them, pushing them to their limits and then beyond, showing them things about magic that they had never seen before, things that he himself had researched years before, or even invented himself. It was old magic, magic that hadn't seen the light of day for hundreds of years, and it was powerful and intoxicating: anyone who loved magic was captivated by it.

By the end of his seventh year, he had created an army, all of them utterly loyal to magic. By virtue of having the strongest grasp of magic, he was their leader, and he was prepared to do anything to prevent this wonderful magic from being wiped off the face of the earth.

Working from the shadows, they put their plans into motion. They pooled their resources, put clever individuals into places of power in the Ministry of Magic. Quietly, and with only a few accomplices among his ranks, he placed spies among the Muggle governments. He tracked their movements, their wars and alliances, and he watched the world stretch out before him like a giant chess game, all the pieces with their own unique functions and destinies, his strings attached to each.

Then they began implementing change, pushing the wizards to notice and fear the Muggle weapons and their created, false strength. Muggles stole energy and power from greater sources: their weapons were instruments of theft. They themselves were weak as new-born babes.

The wizards, long separated from the horrors of the Muggle world and only acquainted with their amusements, were shocked and horrified. Times of great change are inevitably accompanied by resistance, and an almost visible tear rent the wizarding world into several groups: those that still wanted harmony and commonality with Muggles, those that wanted complete separation (if only for protection from the Muggle Menace), and those who were somewhere in-between.

The tides were turning, but too slowly for his liking, and so he used his spies in the ranks of Muggle governments, had them push the Muggles into further fighting and chaos. At the same time, he revealed to wizards the results of their second "World War," how many innocent wizards and witches had been affected by a fight not theirs, how harmful the effects of radiation had been to magic—all the things that Grindelwald had fought against, and all the things hidden from them during his time by Muggle-sympathizers.

The magical community faltered, wavered, and finally broke against the overwhelming evidence: Muggles were a danger, a threat to the wellbeing of magical creatures everywhere.

He had them in the palms of his hands. He basked in this for a moment, and then flicked his wrist and ordered the last few obstinate opposers quietly disposed of. While they were being dragged out of his council room, one screamed obscenities at him, called him the Spawn of the Devil, the Darkest Wizard ever in history. He only smirked, and his followers laughed.

Then he shook off the shadows and waltzed into the Ministry of Magic, tall and regal, and demanded an audience with the Wizengamot. Once he had their attention, he brought his ultimate ideas forth: for the safety of the wizarding world, neigh, the world at large, Muggles could not be allowed to continue ruling it as the dominant life form.

It was a battle in and of itself just convincing the wizards that they were not the ones in control, that they had been fenced in, forced to hide their abilities and restrict their movements and magic, all for the sake of these lesser beings, these dangerous creatures who threatened the life of the planet. Once that victory was his, he easily convinced them that Muggles could not be entrusted with the safety of their own kind, let alone the world.

After weeks of arguing, they finally put the finishing touches on the master plan, his Masterpiece, and the final nail in the coffin that Muggles had built for themselves.

England had been won over. From there, his various planted agents around the world were able to sway the other magical governments, one by one. The magical communities, which had long been detached from each other, were able to unite under the same banner that he had once convinced schoolchildren to unite under, their one connecting force: magic.

In the end, it was almost too easy. The Muggles didn't stand a chance, not against the subterfuge of magic. They fell like dominoes, dragging each other down in the process. Their economies collapsed, and they turned on each other, becoming creatures of desperation. Soon they were nothing but scavengers, trying to survive in a world utterly changed.

As the power in the world landed in the hands of wizards, the purebloods rejoiced in this new life where they could practice magic freely, as they had always wanted. The fear that had been present for centuries was replaced with triumph.

Harry Potter—called Dark Lord and Savior both—sat back and smiled, satisfied.


End file.
